Misunderstood Characters Project
by Lucia di L
Summary: Some characters don't have the popularity they deserve and Fanfiction organizes group sessions for them... Crazy metafiction with many secondary characters. Heavy doses of self-deprecating humor.
1. Chapter 1

**Thanks a lot to my beta reader, Underthenorthernlights!**

**This short fic in two chapters is a metafiction about those characters we know but probably don't have the popularity they deserve. I'm not judging but truth is, we focus on a handful of characters. Every character mentioned in this fic - except one - is already the hero of some stories, which means he or she has fanfiction authors or readers who care about him or her and that's great. When I realized the gap between some very popular personalities and the other ones, I had this crazy idea of a group therapy with Martin's characters. This is just for fun, so don't take it seriously...**

**This story is completely different from what I've done before, so reviews would be appreciated. Really.**

**Chapter 1**

Once more, I checked the address on the crumpled paper. This nondescript building hosted the offices I was looking for. I struggled with the revolving door and took the elevator. Third floor, the girl had said. A few seconds later, the elevator door opened and I stepped out. In front of me, FanFiction's big white and blue logo welcomed the visitors. _What am I doing here?_

* * *

I received an email from FanFiction on a Monday. It was the beginning of a new week and after spending too much time reading and writing fanfiction, I was going to work, determined to get back to real life. I had to focus on my job, on my family and on my friends, too. I suddenly met life under the guise of a doe emerging from a bushy hedge. The animal hit the hood of my car, causing a bunch of troubles. After work, I had to call the insurance agent, take an appointment at the repair shop and face my guilt: the doe threw itself headfirst on my car, yes, but the poor animal didn't survive. That's when Chloe sent me an email and told me I could be useful. I love being useful, just like everyone, and what she added was tempting: a stay in Los Angeles paid by FanFiction, and more information than I could ever imagine about the characters of A Song of Ice and Fire. All I had to do was child's play, according to her: take part in a study on fanfiction and give my opinion about Martin's characters. Why would a successful writer need my opinion about his characters, I didn't know, but I certainly needed a trip to Los Angeles.

Chloe's next email was not as enthusiastic as the first one; she wanted to test my knowledge about A Song of Ice and Fire and make sure I deserved a week in Southern California. However, the test was a walk away, every fan could have succeeded. All this seemed too easy and left me puzzled, but when I received a plane ticket with my name on it, my doubts vanished.

* * *

FanFiction's offices looked like a hive of activity, with people going from one desk to another and answering phone calls. Overcoming my apprehension, I walked towards the reception desk where a skillfully disheveled boy smiled at me.

"I have an appointment with Chloe," I said. "It's about..."

"I know. Please have a seat. I'll be right back."

I nearly sank in the leatherette chair he had pointed to and found it surprisingly cozy. Though he came back quickly, he apologized for the waiting time and offered me some coffee. I felt confused: too much attention could only hide something bad. A tall woman in her mid-thirties looking even taller with her wedge heel shoes showed up as I was burning my tongue.

"I'm Chloe," she said, grinning. "You must be Lucia. I'm sorry for the waiting time. Is your hotel comfortable? Please come with me."

I tried to keep up with her long strides. Her office was a small room with a glass door, but at least, she could work quietly.

"So you came for the Misunderstood Characters Project?" Despite her tone, it looked more like a statement than a question. "That's very nice. I mean... you had quite a long journey. We really appreciate that."

_What is she talking about?_ I frowned, but she ignored my reaction.

"Where should I begin, Lucia?" Chloe said. "Our site is the biggest fanfiction archive. Which means we have an overview on popular culture and best sellers like A Song of Ice and Fire. We know what fans love. We know what you love and what you read."

She paused and I swallowed hard, realizing this woman could blackmail any user of the site if he or she had only run their eye over a daring fiction.

"We know what people prefer and what they don't care about. That's why you're here. Readers cherish some characters and practically don't give a damn about the others. You probably don't know it, but it's like a disease affecting the ignored characters. And what affects the characters affects the writer. So you're here to talk to some of the characters and do your best to restore their self-esteem."

"You must be kidding me," I said. "Is this a joke or something?"

She folded her arms, and gave me a cold stare. I felt the urge to get things straight.

"I thought I had won some contest. I thought I would have to talk with users of the site, about fanfiction."

"We wouldn't need you here in this case, would we?" she answered with a hint of exasperation. "Why do you think we bought tickets for you and sent them to..." She gave a look at her computer, as if checking my address. "Well, never mind. Your place has got a tricky name, by the way. You didn't read my last mail?"

"Obviously not." I sighed.

"Well, you didn't win any contest, Lucia," she stated. "You're here because we need people to take care of the misunderstood characters ego. And fanfiction authors and readers are good at it, because they know everything about this book."

"What's wrong with you?" I asked, wondering if there was some hidden camera in the tiny office. "You understand what fiction means? It's not for real. And stop calling me Lucia, it's not my real name."

She pouted and stared at me again, then picked up her phone. "Send him in," she said.

I sighed again, took my purse and got on my feet.

"I'm really sorry," I said. "I shouldn't even be here. Just tell me where I can repay for the plane tickets and all this. My banker is going to freak out, but..."

We heard someone knocking at the door and I froze. Behind the glass door, a brown-haired man hesitated and pushed the door handle slowly, as if he was afraid of breaking something. When he came in and planted himself in front of me, I noticed his medieval clothes: breeches, boots and a woolen cloak. A pair of leather gloves completed his outfit.

"My lady," he said, bowing slightly.

I had never seen this man, yet he seemed familiar to me. A beard with silver threads covered the lower half of his face and there was something about his eyes...

"I called Ser Davos because we know he's one of your favorites," Chloe said triumphantly.

"Pretty Halloween costume," I commented. "But if you think..."

"Please show her your hands, Ser."

He obeyed Chloe, removed his gloves and showed me his left hand. The first joints of his fingers were missing.

"Et merde!" The swear word escaped my lips as soon as I realized who was in front of me. "I...I'm sorry," I said, turning to Chloe, then to the man. I felt completely lost.

He looked at Chloe, brow furrowed.

"Never heard this language before. Is she from Essos?"

"Sort of," Chloe answered, repressing a smile. Then she stood up and towered above me. "Quite impressive, huh? You can touch his hand, if you want."

I looked at her, ill at ease, feeling like a doubting Thomas.

"I'd rather not. Tell me your coworker put something in my coffee," I begged.

She giggled and tilted her head.

"We have to discuss further," she finally said. "Please leave us."

Ser Davos peered at me again and exited the room, as I collapsed on the nearest chair. Chloe sat down and leaned forward, elbows on her desk.

"Do you realize this chance we are giving you? You can talk to him and to many others. And they need your help; don't you want to lend a hand to them?"

Though it seemed difficult to take in all this, I nodded silently. Everybody wants to be helpful, I guess.

"There's something I don't understand," I said. "Why would they need any help?"

"You're a teacher, right? So you're familiar with high school issues. The whole thing works like a bunch of kids in a high school. There's the football team, the cheerleaders and on the other side you have the spotty boys and girls to whom nobody talks to. It's the same for Martin's characters: Jon Snow, Sandor Clegane and Gendry would be the captains and the quarterbacks and the Stark girls would be the cheerleaders. They have so many fanfics! In comparison, most of the POV characters are neglected. My boss prefers to say they're misunderstood, but that's an understatement."

"I don't agree; there are fics about them, too!"

"Oh, I see, you want some proof." Chloe typed on her keyboard. "Jon Snow. If you total all the ratings, he has 353 fics. On A Song of Ice and Fire's page only, I didn't check on Game of Thrones' page. Samwell Tarly: 7 fics. Some of them feel neglected, because most of the authors and readers, including you, my dear, focus on a handful of characters. Please come with me."

I followed her out of the office and we walked through a corridor illuminated by aggressive neon lights. Chloe stopped in front of a one-way mirror. On the other side, a dozen of people in breeches and long gowns were sitting in plastic molded chairs, waiting. I could recognize everyone: Melisandre wore her distinctive red dress, Barristan Selmy's noble face turned to me for a second and Brienne of Tarth crossed her long legs, a sad look in her eyes.

"Take your time," Chloe said, her voice suddenly soft. "Have a look at them. They can't see you."

The big office they were sitting in looked like a classroom, because someone had lined up the chairs. In the first row, Tyrion Lannister whistled, while a redheaded man who could only be Jon Connington leaned back on his chair. At the back of the room, Asha Greyjoy sighed heavily and gave a bored look at Davos. There was only one man, wearing armor, I couldn't identify. Despite his white hair, his face seemed still young.

"Who is he?" I asked Chloe.

"Areo Hotah, the captain of Doran Martell's guards. He doesn't have a single fiction. Sad, isn't it?"

She was sincere; I turned to her.

"All right. How can I help?"

* * *

Chloe gave me a few tips before starting the session. A solemn look on her face, she escorted me to the room where the characters waited for me. As soon as she came in, her dress and wedge heel shoes drew everyone's attention; Melisandre frowned at the flower-printed fabric while Tyrion seemed fascinated by her wooden soles.

"Hey guys," Chloe said in an unexpected informal tone, "this is Lucia. She's here for your group session."

I met curious eyes and as Jon Connington's puzzled gaze lingered on me, I suddenly rued the morning impulse that made me pick a pair of jeans and a sleeveless blouse. _Way too casual._

"... and she's a long way from home..." Chloe added.

"She's from Essos," Davos whispered to Melisandre. "She speaks the Common Tongue, but with a strong accent."

"I wonder if she speaks Valyrian," Melisandre answered.

"… you'd better be kind with her. Tyrion, can I count on your good will?"

Eyelids closed and half-smiling, Tyrion played the innocent. _Be kind with her? What did Chloe mean?_ My apprehension grew when she left me and closed the door. I looked at them, trying to collect myself, and saw both curiosity and disbelief in their eyes. _They don't take me seriously,_ I mused.

"Well, I'm very happy to meet you," I said shyly. "Chloe gave me a list, so I'm going to call the roll."

I said their names one by one, as I would do at school, except that my pupils do not have their own page on a Wiki of Ice and Fire; a few people were missing.

"Cersei Lannister?" I said.

As Tyrion's brow raised in his scarred face, I swallowed hard.

"I mean, Queen Cersei..."

He burst out laughing and Brienne face palmed.

"The Lannister bitch usually doesn't feel like coming," Jon Connington answered. "Perhaps her penance walk and her now bald head have something to do with it. What do you think, dwarf?"

Tyrion nodded, trying to regain his composure.

"Cersei Lannister will not come today," Barristan summed up, "nor Eddard Stark, nor Quentyn Martell. You have to understand that our appearance depends on the progression of the story. Lord Stark is now beheaded and Prince Quentyn is burnt."

"And Ser Barristan is more wrinkled and decrepit than ever," Tyrion explained with a devilish smile. "Ned Stark was here when your... predecessor came. He had his head resting on his lap. The poor girl collapsed when he tried to talk. But the best moment was Theon Greyjoy's arrival. He was late and when he closed the door behind him, he brought with him a foul odor of dead kraken..."

"Shut up, dwarf!"

Without any warning, Asha Greyjoy got on her feet and threw herself on Tyrion. I did what I would have done in a classroom and tried to separate the two enemies, but as Asha squeezed his throat, Tyrion did his best to give her a punch. He missed Asha's face but not my stomach. I winced in pain and Barristan gently took my arm and made me step backwards as Jon Connington and Areo Hotah grabbed Asha.

"Are you hurt, my lady?" Barristan asked, towering above me. He looked concerned.

"I'm... I'm fine, Ser," I mumbled.

Did you ever ask yourself why girls like A Song of Ice and Fire? Well, that's why. That's because from time to time a Sansa Stark stirs inside us and sighs for true knights.

"Anyway," Tyrion said, rubbing his cheek, "Theon's arrival made your predecessor faint again and the session was canceled."

"Don't listen to him, dear," Melisandre told me. "He's trying to frighten you."

"And... the Greyjoys? What about Victarion?" I asked.

"The Greyjoys spend their time fighting each other," Jon Connington explained. "So now they come one after the other. Today is Asha's day."

I tried to regain my composure and took the paper Chloe gave me before leaving; it was her directions about the group session I was supposed to follow.

"All right," I said. "Let's meditate."

Though all I had to do was read the damn paper and tell them to repeat my words, I was petrified, because of the content of those lines. Chloe had told me in all seriousness that Alcoholic Anonymous and their twelve steps inspired her boss when he wrote this. Unlike me, Melisandre was beaming and quivered on her chair with anticipation.

_"We admit we are powerless over fanfiction - that our lives had become unmanageable."_ I began, after clearing my throat.

They repeated docility – Melisandre bright-eyed while the majority muttered. Only Tyrion repressed a fit of laughter.

_"We came to believe that a power greater than ourselves - our creator - could restore us to popularity."_

Tyrion looked at his companions, still smiling, and Barristan glared at him.

_"We make the decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of George R.R. Martin, as we understand him."_

I felt relieved once the "meditation" was over.

"Why don't you tell me what you've been doing during the previous group sessions?" I asked, an encouraging smile on my lips.

Brienne lowered her head and scrutinized her worn-out leather boots and so did Samwell. Davos suddenly felt the urge to look through the window.

"I'm sorry," Tyrion said, "but I think you should introduce yourself first. We don't even know who you are."

"Oh my God, this is so weird..." I began, a nervous laugh escaping my lips.

"Excuse me," Melisandre said, "but you said _'My God'_. Does it mean you're not a worshiper of the Seven? Do you believe in the Lord of Light?"

"Shut up, woman!" Davos hissed. "Are you from Essos?"

"I'm sorry, ser, I'm not from Essos... and I don't believe in R'hllor. I'm... I'm a teacher..."

They frowned and I remembered education was the maesters prerogative in Westeros.

"I work with children and young people, like the maesters do in noble houses, but I work with children coming from all ranks. I teach them..."

"She's a septa!" Tyrion exclaimed.

He burst out laughing while Brienne sighed heavily, understanding my exasperation.

"I'm not a septa!" I protested. "Where I come from, people who teach children are not septas or maesters. And I came here to help you, so you'd better cooperate."

My cheeks were reddening and Tyrion suddenly lowered his head.

"So what did you do with my predecessor?" I asked a bit stiffly.

"Well, the dwarf spent his time questioning your predecessors," Asha answered, crossing her thin legs, "and trying to frighten them so no one stayed for long."

An accusing silence surrounded Tyrion.

"I don't know why I'm here!" he complained, shrugging.

"We don't know either why you're here," Asha approved. "After all, you're our creator's favorite child. I mean, you have the best cues, you have more chapters than every other character. You're the blue-eyed boy!"

"If you have had a good look at me, my dear, you'd know I've got one green-eye, one black eye, I'm certainly not blue-eyed."

He paused, waiting for our reaction but only saw puzzled looks.

"All right, this was probably not my best cue."

"I know why he is here," a hesitating voice said on the third row.

We all turned to a bright red Samwell Tarly wriggling on his chair.

"Please tell us more," I said.

"Well, it's not easy to say." Samwell wrung his hands and his tone seemed apologetic. "Most of us are here because we have few chapters of our own, or because we are minor characters. I mean I am a minor character, I admit it. Tyrion is quite different. He's one of the heroes, if not the hero of the book and that's why so few fanfiction authors think about him. There's not much to write about Tyrion; our creator does it already."

It felt strange to hear Samwell say_ "Our Creator"_. Despite the black brother's shyness and lack of charisma, everyone in the room listened carefully.

"Yet, Tyrion is here. Lady Chloe once said we were here because when we feel neglected, it's difficult for our creator to write. To give our point of view. I think that's why you're here, Tyrion. Because you're so important. Because you're the key."

After the confusion of the beginning and the argument between Asha and Tyrion, the room was now completely silent. Tyrion was still, eyes downcast, brooding on Samwell's words.

"Does someone wants to add something?"

Barristan cleared his throat.

"Let's face it, most of us are here for one reason," the old knight said. "We are boring. Brienne of Tarth may have more stories in the future, we'll see... However, we are somehow boring or less interesting than... the other ones. When our creator referred to me as the 'discarded knight' I didn't pay attention, at first. It's ironic, because now that's how I feel. Discarded."

"Does someone has some sour red to share?" Tyrion suddenly asked. "So that we can drown our misery."

"Drinking is not part of the group session," Melisandre said in a reproachful tone.

Tyrion tried to mimic the red-haired know it all and I repressed a smile.

"Ser Barristan is right," Brienne added. "For readers and writers, we're quite boring."

"Is that how you feel, Brienne? Boring?" I asked.

She nodded and her blue eyes locked with mine. "What would you write about me, for instance?"

"I...I don't know," I answered bluntly.

"By the way, do you read or do you write such stories?" Tyrion briskly asked.

"I read them. And I wrote one."

"I know readers can send ravens and tell the authors they liked or disliked the story," he went on. "So... how many ravens did you get?"

I stared at him, speechless. It always seemed to me that asking about reviews was like talking about money with French people; rude and almost taboo. Everyone looked at them and counted them but no one would admit it.

"I'm lucky," I finally answered after regaining my composure. "In consideration of my... lack of practice of the Common Tongue, people were kind and I received more... ravens than I expected."

"May I ask what your story was about?" Tyrion added, a devilish smile on his face.

At that moment, I understood I wouldn't get off lightly. I was trapped. I took a sharp intake of breath.

"The story was about... Sandor Clegane and Sansa Stark."

They all looked at me and I saw a range of emotions in their eyes, from disappointment to anger. Barristan's gaze was just sad and disenchanted while Asha could hardly hide her fury. They must feel betrayed. Strangely, Tyrion was the only one who didn't look surprised. A crooked smile appeared on his scarred face.

"In this case, my dear, you seem to be the worst person to talk to us," he stated.

"All right," I said. "I wrote one story about two popular characters, and you're mad at me. But I'm here for you now and I'm trying to help."

As I could read puzzlement and suspicion in their looks, I wanted to add something but Chloe was already scratching at the door. She entered the room briskly, her flower-printed dress whirling.

"Hey guys!" she said in a cheerful tone. "How was it?"

She seemed relieved that I didn't faint or run away. They mumbled something, then left.

"So?" Chloe asked me.

"Well, it's weird. They are like... unruly children. I don't know if I can go on."

"Just go back to your hotel, relax yourself and call me when you've made up your mind."

Chloe patted my shoulder before walking away and I gathered my things. That's when I saw Areo Hotah getting on his feet and beginning to line up the chairs. You certainly remember that guy who was sitting at the back of the classroom, mute. Maybe you remember his face but not his name, because it just felt like he wasn't there. The guy never contributed, never rebelled against the teachers; he scarcely mixed with the other students, to say the least. He just seemed to wait. Areo Hotah was like this guy: he was there, but you barely noticed him. Silently, he lined up the chairs, made three perfect rows and looked at what he had done. I planted myself in front of him and realized how tall and broad he was, compared to me.

"Thank you Areo," I said, smiling.

He shrugged. Listening quietly while the other ones talked and doing service was his daily routine. He didn't even expect me to thank him. At that instant, I regretted that few people – including me – could relate to him and write his story. Beneath his apparent lack of emotion, he was a complex character. The realization made me feel guilty. I smiled again, a bit confused, and when he cleared his throat I heard his husky voice for the first time.

"Will you come back?"

I stared at him for a few seconds and tried to decipher his look; he stayed perfectly still, towering above me. Was it curiosity or indifference I saw in his eyes? Did he want me to come back or not? I couldn't tell. _This one is an enigma._


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"You're new to fanfiction, right?" Chloe asked me, after gesturing for me to sit in her office. She was looking at her computer, probably checking my profile. I hesitated, then nodded.

How do you know somebody is new to fanfiction? Certainly by the mistakes he or she makes, by his or her unfamiliarity with the code. For instance, the first time I read the expression _'IMHO'_ in a review, I was puzzled. I couldn't understand the meaning of this damn expression and for a second, I admit it, it sounded like an irreverent way of referring to an Egyptian chancellor. My questions about the meaning of _'OC'_ in fiction summaries were even more embarrassing. Well, there were those mysterious two letters coming over and over again in the main page of FanFiction and above, there was this link called _'A Song of Ice and Fire Crossovers'._ 'OC'? Crossovers? For a very short, yet embarrassing moment, I genuinely thought a fan had imagined a crazy story with Martin's heroes meeting a bunch of idle rich teenagers from the Orange County. Wait a minute: maybe someone actually did it and created an alternate universe with Robb Stark and Seth Cohen conversing by the swimming-pool. Anyway, I guess only someone new to fanfiction can imagine such a meaning for 'OC'.

"There are some changes," Chloe warned me, holding out a new list. "Asha will be here, though it's not her day. Victarion refused to attend the group sessions. And... Quentyn Martell asked if he could come."

"I thought he was like... dead," I said, cringing.

"Well yes, but the poor boy suffered a lot and..."

Chloe met my eyes and shrugged. _And she felt for him._

"So I guess he can talk, but... what does he look like?"

"Burnt, if truth be told. But don't worry; he'll be lying on a stretcher, a blanket covering his body. All you will see from him is his face."

How reassuring. I sighed and chewed my lower lip.

"I'm a big girl. I can handle it."

"Great!" Chloe exclaimed. "I'm sure this is going to be an unforgettable moment for you."

_Maybe not for the reasons you expect._ She jumped on her feet and I almost had to run to keep up with her long strides. We stopped in front of the one-way mirror, once again.

"He's here," Chloe commented and she pointed at the stretcher. A thin form was lying under a grey blanket revealing only a red and black head. At that instant, I couldn't remember if Quentyn Martell was supposed to be handsome or not in the books. It didn't matter though: no one could have recognized him. Melisandre was peering at him, half-curious and half-disgusted. Turning on her heels, Chloe gave me an encouraging smile then left. I took a sharp intake of breath and entered the room.

For lack of a warm welcome, I got a bunch of surprised looks: Brienne and Samwell gaped, while Quentyn painfully lifted his head and did something weird with his eyes. He seemed to eyeball me. Jon Connington's furrowed brow revealed he didn't expect me to be there and I could read curiosity and amazement in Tyrion's mismatched eyes. On the third row, Areo Hotah looked as still as a statue. Only Melisandre beamed at me, but certainly not because she wanted to see me again.

"I know you would come," she said, puffing herself up, "I saw you in my fires."

As I put my purse and the list on a table, Davos rolled his eyes. Obeying Chloe's orders, I called the role, read the meditation and made them repeat.

"Is there some question you want to discuss before we go on?" I asked, once I sat on my chair. I clung to the faint hope that Tyrion could not interfere.

His crooked smile reminded me that I was new to fanfiction and naïve and sometimes overly optimistic.

"Yes, dear, I do have a question," he began. "I've been gathering material about what we discussed earlier and I'm puzzled. I just don't get it, but I'm sure you can enlighten me."

He looked at his companions, seeking their support. Most of them gave Tyrion a cold stare.

"The story you wrote about two popular characters," he said, stressing these last words, "doesn't make any sense. Did you have a good look at the Hound? He's as ugly as the Seven Hells! And you imagined a romance between him and one of the most exquisite young women in Westeros... How can a sensible person believe that?"

I smiled and shrugged, then I saw an undaunted Tyrion wiggling on his chair and turning to face the other characters.

"You have to understand that this girl Lady Chloe sent us has a wild imagination. She describes things beyond understanding."

He shifted again to face me.

"Look me in the eye and tell me how a night spent in a godsforsaken place, precisely in some half-ruined tavern, drinking cheap wine with a man who is both a brute and a drunkard, who has more scars than I have and only grunts when you ask him something, can be romantic."

At the end of his tirade, Tyrion was almost out of breath. I smiled again.

"You'd be surprised," I simply told him.

He seemed frustrated to realize that I was perfectly comfortable with something he couldn't understand. Sighing heavily, he tried to collect himself and find a different angle of attack.

"You're puzzled because you can't take in the fact that a man 'who only grunts' as you put it, has more fans than a witty person like you," I explained.

"Fans?"

"I mean supporters."

Tyrion squinted, tilted his head, and rubbed the remains of his nose.

"Still, it doesn't make sense: the ugly Hound with Sansa!" he protested.

"That's not completely far-fetched," Brienne said. "Why couldn't an ugly person fall in love?"

Pleased by Brienne's intervention, I nodded. The blond girl looked uneasy, now that she had spoken her mind and she lowered her gaze as embarrassment colored her cheeks.

"Oh, please!" Tyrion exclaimed. "Everyone of us knows you were in love with Renly, who tragically passed away, blah blah blah. But that was before you met my big brother and had a crush on..."

Brienne rose from her chair and glared at Tyrion, who instinctively cringed. Asha grabbed Brienne's wrist and made her sit back. A furious look on her freckled face, The Maiden of Tarth dusted her jerkin, as if Tyrion's cutting remark had dirtied her clothes.

"Maybe this conversation is not so futile," Melisandre commented.

"Well thank you, Melisandre. Could you tell us more?" I asked.

"I think I don't understand the stories people like you wrote about me," she confessed.

Her haughty appearance was gone; she seemed confused and almost hid her face behind her red locks.

"We're here to answer that sort of question," I said, trying to encourage her. "Go on."

"There are few stories about me," she began. "The Lord of Light didn't reveal how many stories there will be about me, so far..."

"Come to the point, woman!" Jon Connington told her, exasperated.

"In several stories introducing me, I was described as an evil woman who only wanted to sleep with King Stannis..."

Tyrion burst out laughing and a disturbing sound coming from the stretcher informed us Quentyn was chuckling as well.

"... no religious considerations," she lamented. "Just carnal need and my religious precepts fallen through the cracks! That is so unfair and so different from the person I am."

"Well, maybe you're the one who's being unfair," I explained. "The authors who wrote those stories really care about you and they're unbeatable about R'hllor. They don't mean to hurt your feelings and I'm sure they portray you as a strong woman. That counts for something, right?"

She still seemed puzzled when Davos whispered to Jon Connington that she had asked for it. Melisandre immediately looked daggers at them.

"And why am I always associated with King Stannis?" she asked, her voice hitting the high note. "You could write something different for me and imagine a relationship between me and some other man."

"Don't point at me like that," I said calmly. "I can see you're angry, but I'm not the one who wrote those stories. And I read some summaries that were far more disturbing."

"More disturbing than a red-haired priestess flirting with the king of tight-asses, really?" a dubious Tyrion asked.

I nodded then crossed my legs, slightly embarrassed, and of course he noticed my reaction. They all did.

"Please tell us," he begged, hands joined in prayer. "I promise I'll behave."

"First of all, you have to know that I usually read a lot of summaries and only pick the stories that interest me," I told them. "So I read this summary but I just couldn't go further."

"More and more interesting," Asha commented.

"So Tyrion, some stories are dedicated to your lord father. And one of those fictions is quite... daring. It also involves Lady Olenna Tyrell, a whip and a jar of marmalade."

An expression of horror appeared on Tyrion's face as the other characters started laughing.

"It's a joke!" Tyrion exclaimed, his voice nearly covered by Asha and Jon Connington's noisy laughter.

"I wish it was," I answered. "The damn summary left me nauseous."

"A jar of marmalade!" repeated Quentyn, beaming.

A merry contagion reached the third row; Samwell laughed up his sleeve and Areo chuckled. I locked eyes with Doran Martell's guard and Tyrion noticed it.

"Oh, he can smile!" Tyrion said in a mocking tone. "I thought Areo could only look at people with his bovine gaze and bow."

"Stop it, Lannister!" Barristan hissed.

"That's not even funny," Brienne added, taking one step further.

But Tyrion wouldn't stop, even if the cheerfulness had deserted Areo's face. The Dornish guard clenched his jaw.

"In our illustrious assembly of unpopular characters, Areo, you're the king: not a single story."

The room went still and the cold stares made Tyrion cringe. Samwell's faltering voice broke the uncomfortable silence.

"Areo is... a part of the story. Just like you. When you question Areo's presence in the books, you question our creator."

"You know, the man who always gave you the best cues," Asha said, a sardonic smile on her lips.

Tyrion scowled and folded his arms tight on his chest.

"All right," he eventually muttered. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have pointed at your... lack of popularity."

On the third row, Areo's square face still exuded anger; as I stared at him, his features slowly relaxed and he soon regained his stolidity. A disharmonious sound suddenly escaped from the stretcher and I realized Quentyn was clearing his throat.

"Lady Melisandre is not the only one who complains about the stories written about her. To tell the truth, I'm dissatisfied," he said.

"Dissatisfied?" I repeated. "What's the problem with your stories?"

"They give a false idea of... the man I am," he mumbled.

He seemed uneasy and if his skin wasn't burnt, giving place to raw flesh, we may have seen him blushing. I think I know what he ment.

"Those stories they tell...don't laugh at me, it would be unfair, they all describe my relationship with Gerris, as if I was infatuated with him. But it's Daenerys I'm in love with!"

Despite the boy's protests, some of the other characters glanced at each other, shaking their heads. Barristan sighed heavily and gently replaced the grey blanket on Quentyn's shoulders before one of us could get a glimpse of his burnt and possibly charred limbs.

"I wonder what you think about it?" Melisandre asked me. "I just feel the same: those stories transmit a false idea of myself." Her voice wasn't as smooth as she usually was; she sounded testy. Ten pairs of eyes lingered on my face as I gathered my thoughts.

"It seems that the person you're paired up with in those stories doesn't... satisfy you. You, Melisandre, you don't understand why people focus on Stannis and... you, Quentyn, you don't like being associated with Gerris. Fanfiction's authors and readers love couples. We love pairings."

"Unlikely pairings like the Hound and Sansa," Tyrion teased.

"Unlikely pairings like Gerris and me," Quentyn retorted, focused on his case. "He's but my friend! People should understand this."

An impatient grunt escaped from Jon Connington's lips and he shifted, unable to find a comfortable position on his plastic molded chair. I remembered Jon's thoughts about his _"silver prince"_ in A Dance with Dragons and I felt like I was entering a minefield.

"These authors never meant to offend you," I said. "You can't control the impression you make on readers. Who can say people see him or her exactly the way he or she is? And... for authors and readers, love stories between two men are not... unlikely. They simply exist."

Under Jon Connington's insistent gaze, I felt uneasy. As my eyes fleeted around the room, I saw Tyrion turning to the Lord of Griffin's Roost, a sly expression on his face. I glared at him. _Don't even think about it._ Tyrion tilted his head, aware of what I was doing, then gave me an apologetic smile.

"Pairings are stupid," Quentyn summed up. When he was frustrated, he had a stubborn and even childish tone.

"Let's do something fun," I suggested. "You're going to work by pairs and you'll try to find what kind of story one could write about your partner."

"Is this your idea of fun?" Tyrion asked me.

"Well, yes. I thought it would be fun to watch you trying to figure out what story you would imagine about..."

I paused and observed them for a few seconds. Tyrion was frowning, wondering who I could associate with him. I set my eyes on the red priestess.

"About Melisandre," I finally said, repressing a smile.

Tyrion scowled and Melisandre rolled her eyes as Davos began to laugh heartily, exactly like some of my pupils would do in similar circumstances. I couldn't help chuckling and Melisandre looked daggers at me.

"Are you challenging me?" Tyrion asked.

I got on my feet and leaned forward, resting my hands on the back of his chair; this way, he couldn't move and I was towering above him, despite my short size.

"Call it retaliation," I answered, smiling.

Asha and Brienne were grinning when I stood up straight.

"Bloody girl wearing breeches," Tyrion mumbled as soon as I turned my back on him. It sounded like a provocation, but his eyes only glimmered with mischief.

"What's your problem with women wearing breeches?" Asha growled. Something about her told me she was joking as well and wasn't looking for a fight.

An offended rustle of skirts crossed the room as Melisandre finally joined Tyrion.

"Brienne with Barristan," I announced. "Asha and Davos. Samwell and Quentyn. Areo and Jon. I'll give you paper and pens."

The last word brought disbelief and curiosity on their faces. I waved my hand in a gesture of apology.

"Forgive me. Pens are like... feathers, I guess," I explained, holding out a ball-point pen and a paper to Melisandre, who scrutinized the pen as if it was some magical item.

"Where are the ink bottles?" an anxious Samwell asked.

"You don't need ink bottles. Ink is inside the... feather."

"Witchcraft," Melisandre said, combing her red hair with slow and wide movements.

"You're the only witch in this room," Tyrion commented.

"What will happen to me if they kill each other?" I asked Jon Connington, in an undertone.

He laughed. "I will stand up for you, my lady."

Some of them got on their feet and walked across the room to join their partner. When Quentyn tried to sit up and slightly pushed his blanket, revealing a charred forearm, Brienne froze and so did I. Melisandre turned her head to watch the Dornish prince and cringed immediately.

"No, dear!" I said. "No need to trouble yourself. I'm sure Samwell can write for both."

Samwell nodded his approval, Brienne gave a sigh of relief and so did I, as Quentyn lied back in his stretcher.

* * *

Imagining the story they would have written about someone else was just a trick to make them realize what fanfiction was like. Most of them seemed puzzled and even lost but no one rebelled. I kept going from one group to the other, reading what they had already scribbled and encouraging them if need be.

I spent my time giving advice to those who were at a loss, like Areo, and preventing Tyrion and Melisandre to fight with each other.

"We disagree on artistic matters," Tyrion told me after Melisandre almost choked him.

"I complained about the tales describing me as a wanton priestess, he knows it, and he imagines one of those stories on purpose!" Melisandre protested.

"I'm not a very gifted person but I am quite an expert in teats and other parts of feminine anatomy," he retorted. "I just want you to take advantage of my skills..."

Melisandre's angry hissing covered his last words. It was time to stop.

I went back to my seat and asked everyone to read his or her story. Jon Connington told me Areo didn't write a single line.

"I'll figure out something," I answered.

He snorted, revealing he didn't believe me.

"Who wants to read their story?" I asked, ignoring his disillusioned look.

One after the other, they stood up, cleared their throat and explained what they had imagined for their partner.

"It's a story about Asha's new boat," Davos said, shifting from foot to foot. "She... sees the boat, she likes it, she gives the boat a name and then she sails away. That's all."

"Well, it's different from what I expected, but it's interesting," I commented. "What about you, Asha?"

When she got on her feet, her self-confidence vanished. She gave us an uneasy smile.

"Davos gets a new boat for... his smuggling activities," she said. "So if I was to write this story, I would describe the boat: its length, its speed, the number of sails, everything... I would say how Davos is happy with his new boat and in the end, he would weigh anchor and go smuggling... somewhere."

She smiled again, so as to coax me.

"Do you realize it's exactly the same story?" I asked her. "Who copied from the other one?"

With a sheepish look on their face, they pointed at each other; their matching gesture seemed so ridiculous Tyrion began to laugh.

"We didn't exactly copy from each other," Davos pleaded. "When we talked, we become aware that boats were our only common interest, so..."

"All right. Somebody else?"

Barristan stood up and looked at the crumpled paper he had written on.

"Brienne has been on the roads for a long time and she didn't see her father. So I imagined her return to Tarth and her conversation with her father. He would be so proud. I am afraid that is all I was able to think about," he said in an apologetic tone.

Brienne's wouldn't shed the tears shining in her eyes. The grateful smile on her freckled face was Barristan's best reward.

"This is very sweet," I told him. "I love the idea of a conversation with Brienne's father."

The characters spoke one after the other and the stories they told were all different: Quentyn imagined Samwell fighting an army of White Walkers; Brienne described a younger Barristan taking part in his first tourney. There were stories of ghosts and stories about family; good stories and uninspired stories. And like in fanfiction, there was a story with a lot of smut. Tyrion's.

"No, dear," I told him as an infuriated Melisandre glared at him. "No need to read what you imagined about your partner. If it's the same old story with Stannis... breaking his vows with Melisandre in some gloomy corner of Dragonstone, we're just not interested."

"You're wrong," he replied. "Stannis is not the only one to break his vows. In my story, there are also two septas and a septon..."

"I said no," I cut him off. "Melisandre, did you write something?"

She puffed herself up and looked at us, a sly expression on her pale face.

"Tyrion is supposed to be in Essos, but what if a sellsword catches him and brings him to the Lannisters? To his beloved sister, for instance. I imagined Cersei Lannister regaining influence after her penance walk and seeing Tyrion chained in the Great Hall. What would she do?"

She paused and waited for our reactions.

"The Lannister bitch would beg the boy king until he sentences his uncle to death," Jon Connington said coldly.

"No, she wouldn't do that," Melisandre retorted. "A quick death is too sweet. She would have his tongue ripped out so that he would never contradict or mock her again."

Her voice was cheerful. She gave a satisfied sigh and sat down, smoothing her red skirts.

"Best story I've heard so far," Asha commented.

"I can totally imagine Cersei Lannister doing what you said," Jon Connington approved.

"This is ridiculous," Tyrion protested. "We might as well not waste our time on this story. Griff, what did you write?"

Jon Connington explained Areo's main quality was his loyalty. He had asked himself what would happen if Areo suddenly decided not to obey orders. I complimented him for the start of his story but he shrugged: Areo's inability to write frustrated him and he wanted us to know how disappointed he was. The group session ended with him grumbling about Areo and the characters got on their feet as soon as they heard Chloe knocking at the door. As an attempt to make it up, Areo stayed and gathered the pens and the sheets of paper. I called Jon Connington before he deserted the room.

"Can I have a word with you?" I asked, grabbing a discarded sheet of paper.

He growled something and planted himself in front of me as I started to write.

"What do you want?" he said, a bit stiffly.

"I won't be very long, I promise."

He sighed heavily and turned to watch Areo lining up the chairs. I was writing so fast my wrist and knuckles began to hurt.

"Here you are," I said, holding out the paper.

"What is it?" he rasped, knitting his brow.

"The story you didn't have. It's just... some ideas."

He grasped the paper and read it. At first, his bearded face didn't express anything, then he raised his head and locked eyes with me. He's furious, I thought.

"OK, you don't like it," I said. "I understand."

He shook his head. "No, you don't. It is disturbing to have someone writing about your life. About your past."

He turned to look through the window for a second, then set his eyes on his hands, hidden in thick leather gloves. The Grayscale. George R. R. Martin is known for his habit of killing his characters and some fans complain about it, but with Jon Connington, he found a different way to torture us. The readers know the lord of Griffin's Roost will die and they assume he'll live just long enough to be appreciated as a complex personality.

"Will you write this story?" he finally asked. "For good?"

"Most likely. You have an interesting past."

I smiled, hoping he would forgive my bluntness. He swallowed and his features suddenly relaxed.

"Can I keep it?" he whispered, still holding the paper.

I nodded.

He thanked me, bowed slightly and walked away. Once Jon Connington was gone, I couldn't ignore Areo's massive silhouette. In the deserted room, he was standing firm, back straight as if he waited for my orders.

"What's wrong, Areo?"

"I am sorry I didn't obey. I failed. I tried, really, but I failed."

"It's all right," I said. "Don't take it too seriously."

"I understood something today," he went on. "Nobody writes stories for the one who can't even imagine a story. It's not unfair; I deserve it."

His raucous voice echoed in the empty room.

"You're wrong," I said, "someday you'll have stories of your own."

He stared at me, as we were walked towards the corridor.

"You're new to fanfiction," he stated. I suddenly remembered what Chloe had told me a mere hour before. "Only someone new to fanfiction can believe that."

Maybe I was new to fanfiction, still puzzled by the habits and customs on this site, naïve enough to imagine silly meanings for 'OC', but that night, when I came back to my hotel, I understood this encounter had given me more than I expected.

I had to prove someone he was wrong. Ideas were churning around in my head and I began to write. Areo Hotah would have his first story.


End file.
